Luck, Love & Lemon Pie

by Amy E. Reichert

  While Chris asked, “Who is Hunky Kyle?” Ariana mumbled, “I’m not stalking him.”

  Lisa and MJ laughed.

  “He’s the new high school counselor. Kate’s been talking to him about college apps. What are you doing here?”

  “Thought I’d swing in for a coffee on my way to a meeting.”

  The door jingled again when an attractive blonde walked in wearing a fur vest and large sunglasses. She glanced at their table, paused, then continued on to the counter. MJ’s hackles rose.

  “Where are you meeting out here? Aren’t most of your clients downtown?” MJ asked, keeping an eye on Tammie as she waited her turn in line. There was no way to keep Chris and her separated without being obvious. MJ eyed the fire alarm. Lisa noticed her line of sight and kicked her under the table. MJ conceded. They lived in a small town. She couldn’t keep them separated forever.

  “Prospective client in the new industrial park. If you’ll excuse me, ladies, I should get my coffee so I’m not late.”

  After one more dutiful-husband kiss, he got in line behind Tammie, who turned and said something to him. Neither, MJ noticed, acted as if it had been almost thirty years since they last spoke. Perplexing or disturbing, one of the two.

  “She’s talking to him?” Lisa asked. “A bit ballsy.”

  MJ tilted her head and watched Tammie smile at something Chris said, then take her coffee and leave without glancing at MJ’s table. She slid into her HOT MAMA Escalade and zoomed through the right turn out of the small parking lot, almost knocking over an elderly couple. After paying for his coffee, Chris waved from the door. “I’m off,” he called. “I’ll see you for dinner tonight.” The door’s bells tinkled cheerfully as she watched him drive away to the right, even though she could have sworn the new industrial park was the other way.

  The weekday casino crowd seemed more subdued than the Saturday night group. Rather than a lively, excited vibe, a subtle desperation for a lucky break hung in the filtered air along with the guilt of people shirking their daily responsibilities—or maybe that was just her. Crossing the casino floor, MJ listed everything she should be doing: grocery shopping, scrubbing the kitchen cabinets, obsessing about Tammie talking to Chris, pairing socks. With each list item, her anticipation grew, like skipping history class when you knew there would be a pop quiz. The poker room, though quieter than her last visit, still had that work-like atmosphere MJ remembered. Minds calculated odds, estimated opponents, and tallied up wins and losses. The room itself seemed to project both boredom and intensity all at once.

  MJ took a deep breath, trying to calm her excited nerves and get her enthusiasm under control. Ever since seeing Tammie whisper to Chris, her mind whirled with possible explanations. It was a constant buzzing, like a mosquito she couldn’t see but knew would eventually bite her.

  She could do this without Chris to guide her. Besides, he hadn’t really guided her last time anyway. And on her own was the only way to learn. She dressed simply again—black jeans, black T-shirt, black boots. She let her hair fall around her shoulders, a veil she could place between herself and the other players. She put her name in with the host and looked over the room while she waited. Half the tables had games going; most were filled with men, though there were a few women scattered around the room.

  “MJ, you can go to table twelve,” the host said. She nodded, bought her chips, and settled into her seat. Unracking the chips and looking over her table, she saw no familiar faces. Good. Today was about learning, not small talk. She tapped the iron tree on her wrist for luck and folded the first few hands, watching her opponents for twitches and tics, giveaways and tells.

  Hours passed and she found her little stack growing chip by chip. Players left, others arrived, dealers changed. She had almost hit the felt an hour ago, but a string of good cards and bad players had pushed her ahead. MJ listened to the room, the chips clinking, the cards snapping, and the low rumble of players as they ground through hand after hand after hand. In a room full of people, she was alone and loved it. Here, there was only one job: to play cards. Here, she didn’t worry about anything else. Bliss. She still wasn’t sure why Chris came to the tables, but MJ had found her reason.

  Then, over the speaker, she heard, “Tammie S., table nine.”

  No, it couldn’t be. MJ turned to see a perfectly coiffed blonde head slide into a chair a few tables over at the no-limit game Chris liked to play. Yes, it was. She met Tammie’s eyes as the other woman settled into her seat, but MJ coolly turned back to her game and started racking her chips. Perhaps she had found Chris’s reason for playing, too. She had gone almost thirty years without thinking of Tammie Shezwyski and now she kept seeing her everywhere, letting her get back under her skin. This coincidence was just too weird. As she walked to cash out her chips, she glanced at the back of Tammie’s head. Her hair formed the perfect halo above her slim shoulders and unnaturally tan arms. Maybe, MJ thought, it wasn’t a coincidence at all.

  Chapter Seven

  The blue light on the coffee pot darkened. In practiced motions, MJ poured in a generous amount of half-and-half while dodging the island and walking to the table that took up the far end of the kitchen. Golden morning light streamed in the window above the sink, casting a soft glow on the pine cupboards. As MJ propped open her book on the pumpkin centerpiece to read and enjoy her cup, Chris entered the kitchen dressed for work in his usual white shirt and dark suit, two ties draped over his shoulder—one blue striped, one purple dotted—ready for her daily opinion. Puffs of Daisy’s hair tumbled with his steps. She would need to sweep. She wondered whether they would grow to the size of tumbleweeds if she didn’t. Maybe then someone would notice them and take a turn at sweeping.

  Sigh.

  With barely a glance, she pointed to the purple, which he quickly tied, no need for a mirror. They did this dance every morning. She should ask about Tammie, but as soon as the thought entered her mind it wafted away. No reason to start a big conversation when he was about to go to work. They could talk about it later.

  “I’m glad you’re up. When I ate breakfast this morning, I heard some weird scratching from the mantel. I think there are mice in there.” His hair tamed into a professional side part, Chris stole a sip of coffee from her mug, making a face at all the cream she used. “When will you start drinking coffee that tastes like coffee?”

  “When coffee comes with cream in it. And don’t try and sneak that mouse thing in like you aren’t dumping it on me.”

  Chris shrugged. “I have to get to work; otherwise, I’d help.”

  “I could wait until you get home tonight to tackle it.”

  “You could, but I have a dinner. And we both know you won’t be able to leave it alone.”

  “Coward.”

  “Yellow to the core.” He paused on his way out the door and pulled her into an unexpected hug, her face smushing into his armpit. Chris flashed her a guilty smile—he knew he was ditching her to handle the problem solo—and left for work. She got up to inspect the mantel. It’d serve him right to wait until he could help her. She always got the crap jobs because she didn’t have a real office to go to every day. She should call an exterminator to handle it, then go play poker instead and escape this mess for the day. But as she turned to go upstairs, she heard it—a faint scritch-scritch. MJ’s shoulders sagged as she resigned herself to a day of pest control, knowing she wouldn’t be satisfied until she had handled it herself.

  The yellow rubber gloves made MJ’s hands sweaty as she wedged the crowbar between the pieces of wood that made up the chest-high mantel stretching the length of their fieldstone hearth. She wore ratty red sweatpants tucked into her flowered rain boots with a formerly fluorescent pink sweatshirt. Her hair slipped out from a shower cap, a ridiculous topper to her ridiculous outfit. The only element missing was a face mask, or maybe a hazmat suit. Oh, and the supposed man of the house, she thought bitterly.

  MJ yanked the crowbar harder and an inch-wide crack opened. Using
her flashlight, she peeked in, worried she might see hundreds of beady eyes staring back. But no, just a lot of mouse poop. The earlier visitor must have scampered off. With a bit more maneuvering, she removed the front panel of the mantel, revealing the horrific diorama within—a pink insulation mouse condo, blessedly minus the residents.

  She gritted her teeth and assessed the situation, ignoring the pungent smell of rodent waste. Half of the mantel’s inside was crammed with pink insulation, while the other half was blackened with urine-stained wood and pellets. A few acorn shells varied the landscape. She could see gaps in the brick on the back wall that led to the chimney—the entry points. The little bastards had found the perfect place to spend winter, cozy-warm and safe from predators. Their free ride ended today.

  With more cringing and squealing than MJ would ever admit to publicly, she slid the insulation into the blue recycling bin from the garage with a broom handle, careful not to look too closely in case any of the inhabitants were still in residence. She hated Chris a little bit for letting her handle this alone. To be fair, though, she never asked for his help.

  With the insulation out of the way, she could see all the damage left behind. If it hadn’t been for the scratching Chris had heard, they never would have known this was happening. Given the amount of fecal matter and the extensive mouse nest, this arrangement had been going on for a while, right under their noses. What else might she be missing?

  MJ’s phone rang with Chris’s ringtone. She glowered at it, then answered.

  “You are not my favorite person right now,” she said.

  “Ah, you’ve cracked it open?”

  “You owe me. It’s mousepocalypse in there.”

  “Nice one. Any critters?” His voice sounded guarded—as if he wasn’t sure of her mood.

  “Not that I’ve seen, but I’m not looking too closely.” MJ covered her nose with her sleeve to block out the odor.

  “Probably wise.”

  “Are you calling to check on me or is there something else?” Her voice clipped the words, like she was trying to bite off the letters.

  “A little of both. I wanted to remind you I have a dinner tonight. I might be late. Will you be home?”

  “I’m not sure. It all depends on how long this takes to sanitize. It’s possible I’ll have to burn the entire house down.” MJ walked into the kitchen to get some clean air.

  “Please don’t do that.”

  “I make no promises; you aren’t looking at this dioramic hellscape.”

  Chris laughed.

  “This is not funny,” MJ said. She didn’t want to discuss the mice anymore. She wanted to discuss Tammie and why he didn’t seem surprised that she’d appeared at This Great Coffee Place.

  “It’s a little funny.”

  MJ sat at the kitchen table, her skin itching with disgust and irritation and uncertainty. She wanted to laugh with him, forget that they hadn’t done that much anymore, forget about the insecurity blossoming in her chest. “I might play poker after I feed the kids dinner. So . . .” She wanted to ask about Tammie. She should just ask. “Who are you having dinner with?”

  “Um, a possible client.”

  “The one you met with the other day?”

  “Yeah.” Chris’s voice was tight, and it spread to MJ. He wasn’t telling her something. MJ’s stomach dropped. She returned to the living room, decided she didn’t want to ask more, not with a hole in her wall.

  “I gotta go. I want to get this done so I can shower.”

  Chris paused. “Okay.”

  “Later.” MJ hung up and stared at the mess.

  After making a quick dinner for the kids, she left them doing their homework and headed downtown. The casino air caressed her face as she stepped into the circuslike entrance. She took a deep breath and left worries about Chris and irritation at the mice behind her. Heading straight to the poker room, ready for the thrill, her heart beat faster with each step so she was breathless as she stopped to study the boards. She’d been back at least once a week since that first night with Chris, usually during the day when the kids were at school. This was the first time she’d come at night by herself when the room was more crowded. Invigorating.

  The wait list for her usual limit hold ’em game was four people deep, but there was an open spot at the no-limit table. A shiver of excitement danced down her spine. She hadn’t played no-limit since the Gents.

  She claimed the open seat.

  She set her chips on the table, triple her normal stack, but she’d been winning enough that she had a small bankroll to fund her trips to the casino. The entire sum, though, was sitting in front of her. Anything less and the more experienced players would shove her around. Her table was a mix of businessmen after work (Suit One, Two, and Three), young men (Punk, Opie, and Frat Boy), and one older gentleman with a giant stack in front of him (she called him Scrooge).

  Tonight, she decided, she’d play it serious—no talking. Per her usual, she folded the first few hands, letting herself watch her opponents. She settled into a game of “what’s his story?” with herself—guessing at each of the player’s backgrounds. While she studied them, they glossed over her, dismissing her as a nonthreat. This was a different kind of table; these players weren’t afraid to go all in. They wouldn’t expect her to bluff on her first play. They’d expect her to tiptoe in. They expected her to be easy prey.

  She flipped up the corner on her fourth hand. Ace of hearts, ten of spades. Not a bad hand to bluff with. She could get lucky, lots of options. She tripled the previous bet, causing all but Suit Three to fold. He called. The flop hit: five of clubs, six of hearts, jack of spades. She had nothing, but he didn’t know that. She held her hands clasped in front of her, something she tried to do on every hand, and stared at the cards as Suit Three waited for her to make her move. She had to bet first. MJ gave her tattoo two quick taps for luck, then bet fifty dollars. She went back to clasping her hands and waited for her opponent to call or fold.

  MJ could feel her pulse pounding in her neck, so hard she was sure he could see it. She focused on her breath and keeping herself still. Suit Three was talking to her, but she zoned him out. Years of working in bars followed by years of boisterous children had trained her to ignore unwanted noise. She wouldn’t be intimidated by this man, but the longer he waited, the more intensely her neck veins throbbed. There may as well be a flashing neon arrow pointing at her throat. Hands together and neck pulsing, MJ waited and stared at the pot, where the mountain of chips waited for her. With a disgusted growl, Suit Three finally tossed his cards in the pot.

  “Did you have pocket jacks?”

  MJ slid her cards out, facedown, as the dealer pushed the stack of chips toward her. She tossed him a generous tip with a smile.

  “I don’t remember,” she said sweetly, stacking her chips slowly so her neck could return to normal. She’d just bluffed her first pot! With the adrenaline zooming through her, she could probably lift a car. On the outside, she piled her winnings with the boredom generally reserved for diagraming sentences. Where else could she get this? She looked around the table, studying the other players. This time, they studied her back. She was a mystery—and she loved it.

  When she left a few hours later, her bankroll had doubled. She folded the six hundred-dollar bills and slid them into her pocket, where the roll buzzed against her hip, wanting to play some more. She gave it a little pat—she’d be back, and soon. As she practically floated out of the poker room, she noticed a new poster for an upcoming tournament. The winner would win a trip for two to Vegas, entry in a satellite to the Global Poker Finals, and a poker lesson from Doyle Kane. The tournament took place after Christmas, the prize trip in April.

  A nearby host noticed her reading. “Would you like to register?” he asked.

  MJ shook her head without thinking. She would get slaughtered in a tournament, everyone out for blood. She needed to get better, to play more before she could do that.

  Regardless of that wo
rry, though, she heard herself saying, “I’ll think about it.”

  During the drive home, MJ thought about that tournament. How deep could she go? Could she make the final table? Would she even make it past the first round? She wanted to know the answers. But the tournament would take up an entire day, at least, meaning she would have to miss some of Kate’s and Tommy’s events. When she got home, she pulled out a notebook and began to write.

  Events I’d miss:

  Lego Robotics competition day—Tommy

  HS musical—Kate’s in the pit orchestra

  Events I made:

  323 baseball games

  23 orchestra concerts

  9 tae kwon do belt testings

  11 class parties

  6 years of co-leading Girl Scouts

  2 years early-morning flag football

  Room mom for 3 years

  She continued the list for two full pages without scrounging in the corners of her memory. All the sports, rehearsals, and concerts she had clapped and cheered and coached her children through. It looked like an application for Mom of the Year; yet she knew she’d probably forgotten the majority of the classes and activities she chauffeured her kids to. MJ was exhausted just looking at the list. In the suburbs, parenting was a competitive sport.

  With such clear evidence of her years of dedication, MJ didn’t think missing one day for a tournament would be the end of the world. She smoothed the pages onto the counter, as if that might help brush away the lingering guilt she still felt.

  The ball smacked into the well-worn baseball glove, stinging the palm of MJ’s hand and nearly causing her to drop it among the scattered leaves in their yard. She scooped up the ball and tossed it to Kate, who then tossed it to Tommy, who then rocketed it to her, stinging her hand again.

  “Twenty-two,” MJ said, declaring the current count for their game of catch. Their record was fifty-six before someone dropped it. “Okay, Yount, lighten up on the speed. Your ma isn’t going to last long if you keep doing that.” Tommy grinned at the compliment and reined in his arm on the next throw.